by Bobby Adair
Jeremiah snarled and swung his sword. He sliced off the hand of the first demon to reach him, listening to it screech in pain. He cut down another, lopping off its head. He roared. The boy had not only distracted him, but he’d drawn the attention of a horde. Maybe he was insane and stupid. Jeremiah tasted fear on his tongue as he swung and swung, creating a heap of demon bodies. For every one he cut down, several more seemed to appear.
Dammit.
Even as he swung, he knew the moment had arrived when he wouldn’t be able to fend them off. The swarm was vicious and thicker than any he’d seen in months. He needed to do something else. He needed to escape.
“Get back!” he yelled to William.
The boy remained silent, standing against the wall. Watching.
He’s insane. He must be.
Jeremiah felt a moment of panic as he tried to climb the alley wall. His hands slid uselessly down the worn bricks. One of his fingernails broke. The same alley that had allowed him to corner William had trapped him. He looked from side to side, finding no refuge. Even if Jeremiah were in proper shape, he wouldn’t be able to run. He couldn’t get out of the alley without going through the demons. Rotten luck. Stupid, rotten luck. That’s what it was.
“Goddammit!” he roared. “Look what you’ve done, boy!”
A spark of pain pulled Jeremiah’s attention back to the demons. One of them grabbed hold of him, taking a chunk of his arm. It was his injured arm, the one the wildcat had bitten. He screamed in pain as the creature took another mouthful. Another demon lunged, biting his sword arm before he could swing. His sword fell.
Then Jeremiah did.
Shit! Shit!
Dreams of the treasures he’d bring back to Brighton and the women he’d lay with were overridden by fear of death. Jeremiah pushed and kicked, his pulse thundering in his veins as he realized what was happening. This couldn’t be the end.
Shrieks pierced the air as unwashed bodies fell all over him. A stinking, biting mass. Jeremiah tried fighting the demons off, but teeth and hands weighed down his limbs, fighting for flesh, suffocating him. He shrieked as pain ignited in his leg, his stomach, and his neck. He tried screaming, but managed only a gurgle. Blood soaked his face and clothing. Somewhere over the commotion of the demons, Jeremiah heard William’s voice, yelling as he urged the demons on.
“Take him! Take him!”
The boy isn’t stupid, after all.
He’s controlling them.
That final thought lingered in Jeremiah’s mind as he tried screaming an angry response. His world went black before he managed a sound.
Chapter 68: Blackthorn
“Fools.” Blackthorn watched the onslaught from his vantage.
Men ran away from the line, and though it was dark and he couldn’t see their faces, Blackthorn knew in his heart they were the same cowards from the night before. There were still thousands of men down there who believed tenuously in the glorious fantasy of their bravery, but with men beside them dropping their weapons and shovels and running, the good men would crumble and flee as well.
Blackthorn wheeled his horse around, ignored Beck, and faced his captains. “I’ll lead a squadron down to rally the troops on the east hill. Captain Vaughan, take your squadron down to the west hill and ride between the defensive lines. Let the men hear the thunder of hooves. Two hundred brave horsemen will stiffen them.”
“Yes, sir.” Captain Vaughan turned his horse and galloped away.
“Captain Swan,” said Blackthorn, “Any man who retreats from the defense below can dig in the trenches of the second line. Any man who tries to cross behind it, take his head.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s imperative you finish the ramparts before the first line falls.”
“Sir,” said Captain Swan, “allow me to lead the squadron below.” He looked at Blackthorn’s swordless hand. “If the demons break through the line, I can fight.”
“It is not the demons that need to be fought,” said Blackthorn. “It is the fear of them that needs to be battled. If I rally the militia, they’ll stand and fight the demons for us. The defenses are far from complete, but with the advantage of the hill, they are enough. If these men do not hold, they deserve what they get. You needn’t worry about my sword. I won’t waste my squadron to give weaklings a chance to flee another day. If they do not stand, I’ll return, and we brave men will make our stand together against fat, slow demons with bellies full of coward flesh.” Blackthorn turned his attention to Minister Beck.
Beck sat up straight in his saddle. “I’ll ride with you, General.”
Blackthorn laughed. “You’ll do no good riding over this terrain. You’ll as likely fall as stay in the saddle. You remain here. This is the high point. If the battle goes badly down the hill, the men up here will need a leader. Be that leader.”
Chapter 69: Melora
Melora took a step forward. The screech of a demon in the distance gave her fear that not only had she been heard, but she was also being hunted. She’d lost William a while ago.
She crept back in the direction she’d traveled, hoping the excessive quiet might make up for the noise she’d made earlier. But the demons were getting closer. She smelled the putrid scent on the wind, intensifying as the bloodthirsty creatures drew near. Blood racing, she took a guess at where she was going. She could only hope that William had gotten away.
In the dim moonlight, the monoliths all looked the same, as if they were bent on tricking her. She didn’t recognize any as ones she’d already passed. She held her sword tight in her fist, certain any moment she’d have to use it soon.
Where was she?
A footstep slapped the cement. Not a running, frightened boy, but a monster in the shadows. She swallowed and kept going, taking a turn, hoping she was choosing the right direction. One of the buildings groaned. The wind keened through cracks in the walls. Melora fought the feeling that the whole city was conspiring against her.
She resisted the urge to scream for Bray and Ella.
She’d only do that if she had to.
Approaching an intersection, she passed a collapsed building. This one looked familiar. Had she taken a left? A right? The footsteps behind her multiplied as monsters sprang from the shadows. She didn’t have time to stop. All she could do was choose a direction and hope she wasn’t winding herself into a situation she couldn’t get out of.
A figure barreled out of a building in front of her.
Melora cried out and swung her sword, cleaving one of the thing’s arms. It shrieked as it fell. She dodged to the right, avoiding another demon, and weaved into an alley. Looking around, she was certain she’d never been here. The screeches of the demons were everywhere. The alley was narrow and restricting. A trap? She had no way to know if there was an exit on the other end.
Had the creatures lured her here?
She didn’t think they were smart enough.
It didn’t matter. She weaved into the darkness, her heart hammering as the creatures got closer. Soon, she’d have to stop and fight. No matter how many there were, she couldn’t let them take her down. Not without swinging her sword. She felt the walls around her, searching for an opening that would admit her. The walls were hopelessly solid.
And then they weren’t.
Arms grabbed her and pulled her through a doorway. A hand stifled Melora’s scream. She writhed and struggled, realizing only when she heard a human voice that she wasn’t being attacked.
“Stop fighting and follow me! Hurry!”
The hands let her go. She followed the insistent pull of someone tugging her shirtsleeve, leading her further into a building she could hardly see. The air smelled dank and musty, home to who knew how many corpses and demons. She had no choice but to follow. The shrieking grew louder behind her.
Footsteps stomped the pavement.
She almost stumbled again as the person pulled her up a flight of stairs, tugging her into a room that was equally dark save a few moonbeams filtering through the ceiling. Her eyes adjusted enough to watch the person turn and shut the door, sliding objects against it and then pulling her into a huddle. They heaved thick gasps as they caught their breath, listening to the frustrated shriek of demons outside.
“They shouldn’t find us here,” the strange man told her.
“Who are you?” Melora asked.
“My name’s Ivory.”
Chapter 70: Oliver
The demons didn’t come in a wave; they poured across the grass and into the light of the fires like a squall: first a few raindrops at a time, then many, then a torrent.
The first of them perished as they tried to climb through the trenches or circumvent them. More demons came. Some of them ran through the gaps in the defenses, brushing past the men defending, tearing loose between the lines, blindly screaming and looking for someone to bury their teeth into.
The screams of the torrent grew close, and Oliver felt the feet of thousands of running demons through the soles of his boots. He looked up the hill and gave a thought to fleeing, but made a choice. He’d kill Winthrop in the coming chaos and take the risk that the battle would not kill him, too.
The torrent hit.
The trenches filled instantly with twisted men falling over one another. Men on the ramparts hacked with the weapons they wielded. Oliver saw one slip and fall into the trench.
Demons fought their way through the gaps in the defenses and the chaos spread. More militiamen ran. Winthrop’s blood-marked followers stood their ground. Some stayed organized in their formations, benefitting from their training in Blackthorn’s drills.
A pair of demons ran toward Winthrop and his kneeling priestesses. A handful of the women jumped to their feet and attacked. They dragged one demon into the fire. They tackled and kicked the other.
Oliver realized he’d probably made a mistake. With so many demons coming through the first line and the battle having just begun, the chances of—
Something hit him from behind, knocking the breath out of him as he tumbled to the ground.
Oliver shouted through the blood pouring from the lip he’d just bitten. A demon was on him, pinning him to the ground. Oliver heard the beast’s pant close to his ear, felt its hot breath on his skin. Oliver punched the beast to no effect. He couldn’t stab it. He’d dropped his dagger when the beast hit him. He remembered the first beast he’d fought off and had the fleeting thought that he wouldn’t be so lucky this time.
The beast’s jaws clamped onto Oliver’s shoulder, and Oliver screamed.
The thunder of hooves rumbled down the side of the hill, shaking Oliver, distracting the beast.
Oliver reached for his small knife in its sheath.
The beast’s interest in the coming horsemen waned as quickly as it had come. It bit again at the same spot on Oliver’s shoulder, grinding its teeth and trying to tear the flesh away. Oliver screamed at the pain and stabbed the knife blindly behind his head.
The demon howled and flinched away, yanking the knife out of Oliver’s hand.
The beast fell to the side. As soon as the weight of the monster was off his back, Oliver rolled to the side and jumped to his feet.
The monster shook its head and grabbed at the knife stuck deep into the bulbous warts around its ear.
On the ground, glinting in the orange firelight, Oliver spotted his dagger. Oliver scooped it up, gripped the handle with all his might, and lunged at the downed beast, pushing the dagger through its throat.
The beast collapsed, choking but not moving.
Oliver jumped away. Blood pulsed in gushes out of the beast’s wound. Oliver stood for a second, not knowing what to do next. Run? Attack? With both hands he gripped the hilt of his dagger and dove on top of the demon, driving the point through the center of its back.
It instantly went limp.
Oliver knew he’d stabbed the demon’s heart.
He sat there for a moment, not believing what he’d done, not believing he was alive.
The sound of demon war all around him brought his attention back to the moment, and his thoughts raced.
The thunder of hooves blasted away all other sounds. General Blackthorn, followed by a line of sword-wielding men with determined faces, flowed past.
Militiamen cheered. Others screamed. Demons still howled everywhere.
Oliver reached to pull the small knife out of the dead demon’s skull, and his shoulder protested with pain. Oliver touched a hand to his shoulder and pulled it away to see no blood, none. “What?” He put his hand back, right where the pain was, but he didn’t touch skin. The chainmail had become so much like a second skin to him that he’d forgotten he was wearing it. It’d saved is life. His shoulder was going to hurt, but it wasn’t shredded. Oliver sucked in a breath at the pain and pulled his knife out of the demon’s head. He jumped to his feet, dagger in one hand, knife in the other.
The cavalry had passed by, and they were cutting through the chaos leaving a wake of pale dead bodies.
Oliver looked around for the big bonfire, for Winthrop.
Chapter 71: Beck
Like the first line lower on the hill’s slopes, the second line of trenches and ramparts was incomplete. In the light of the fires, Beck saw men and women furiously digging, throwing dirt out of the holes while more men stomped it down on the ramparts. Other men brought wood for the fires. Blue shirts and militia men manned the fortifications or stood in front of the trenches, defending the diggers from demons that had broken through the first line.
Of everyone in the army, only Beck, his eight guards, and the cavalry, most of whom were on the hilltop, were not actively engaged. The cavalry saw to their horses and rested. Their turn to fight would come again tomorrow when the sun was up.
The number of demons attacking the lines was small compared to the number of soldiers in the ranks. More than half of the soldiers stood behind finished fortifications. They were armed. And as Blackthorn had explained to Beck that day back in the fields inside the circle wall, they fought as a unit. The ones that were succeeding against the demons were adhering to their training. The soldiers who’d abandoned their positions and were caught in the gap between the lines, fighting demons one on one or running until they were tackled or trampled, were not faring well.
Beck tried to guess the tide of the battle, tried to tell who was winning. The chaos on both sides of the first defensive line gave him no clue. Bodies were on the ground everywhere. People and demons ran every which way. And though the lines of soldiers were fighting the first attackers, more demons streamed out of the darkness in an unending flow of reinforcements.
The only thing of which Beck was certain was that the first line of defenses would not be completed, certainly not before the sun came up in the morning.
Chapter 72: Oliver
The priestesses were in disarray, unarmed, but outnumbering and wrestling demons toward the fire. Others were dying at the hands of twisted men. Many lay sprawled on the ground, dead or bleeding. Winthrop’s marked men ran past, chasing and killing demons, doing their best to keep the demons away from their leader.
Amidst the bedlam, Winthrop was on his knees in front of the bonfire, rooted to the earth, hands stretched to the heavens, chanting god-speak.
It would be an easy kill.
Oliver ran around to come at Winthrop from behind. He dodged a demon and gave it a slice across the thigh. The demon stumbled.
Uphill from the bonfire, Oliver turned and ran straight down at Winthrop from behind. No marked man or priestess was close enough to do anything to stop Oliver, even if they did notice a boy running amidst the tumult.
Seeing Winthrop’s broad
back silhouetted against the bonfire, Oliver paused. He realized he didn’t want to kill Winthrop anonymously. He wanted Winthrop to see who it was holding the knife to his throat. Winthrop needed to feel the ironic shift of power from abuser into the hands of the beaten boy. He wanted Winthrop to know that the wages of his sins had finally come due. He wanted Winthrop to tremble at the overpowering certainty of his coming death.
Oliver’s boots skidded on the flattened grass, but he kept his balance. He slipped beneath Winthrop’s upstretched arm, came around in front of him, and tucked the point of his dagger under one of Winthrop’s chins. “Look at me.”
With his eyes closed, Winthrop chanted on.
“Look at me!” Oliver punctured skin, and a rivulet of red trickled down the blade.
Winthrop’s eyes calmly opened. His face didn’t change.
That angered Oliver. He wanted to see fear. He certainly smelled it in the form of Winthrop’s piss. But Winthrop looked serene despite the blood. His hands didn’t shake. His vile, chanting voice stayed strong.
“I’m going to kill you,” said Oliver, “for all you’ve done and all you’re going to do.”
“My son,” said Winthrop, “I’m so pleased. You wear the mark. You’re one with your god.”
Oliver willed his arm forward, but the dagger didn’t move. Guilt stopped it. Morality stopped it. Humanity stopped it. Oliver cursed. He’d dreamed of this moment, he’d prayed for it, he’d lusted for it.
“I’ve loved you like a son,” said Winthrop. “I’ve loved you as part of myself.”
“I hate you.”
“You wear the mark of blood. Your spirit will grow to love your god.”
Damn Winthrop’s soothing voice. Damn his inexplicable strength. Why couldn’t he whimper and beg?
